


softly spoken words you gave

by NotusLethe



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Season 5 Spoilers, canon-typical sadness, here's how jonmartin can still win, jonny sims doing crimes against me, martin blackwood will not be okay, post-160, the end of the world as we know it, the entities show up sorta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27537913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotusLethe/pseuds/NotusLethe
Summary: Martin Blackwood had to become head of the newly refurbished (but spitefully named) Magnus Institute because Jonathan Sims is a cheat with poor social skills and intentionally misplaces responsibilities.(post series, speculative)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 9
Kudos: 44





	softly spoken words you gave

**Author's Note:**

> warnings at the end of the story, if needed. Spoilers are vague for season five, nothing specific.

_ And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!  _   
_ That I shall never look upon thee more,  _   
_ Never have relish in the faery power  _   
_ Of unreflecting love!—then on the shore  _   
_ Of the wide world I stand alone, and think  _   
_Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink._  
\- John Keats "When I Have Fears that I May Cease to Be"

Monday started a typical week in the atypical Institute. Even if some of the events involved a rush of scuttling beetles or a creeping fog filled with whispers, there still remained a semblance of repetition. You can only scream at a misplaced clown doll so many times.

Martin hummed as he strolled into the Institute, straightening the edges of his waistcoat again. He frowned at the wrinkles in the stiff fabric. Why did he even bother to iron it just took up time and never stuck the way it was supposed to.

"Mornin' Mr. Blackwood," Rosie said, peering at him over her half-moon glasses. She'd been trying on some new makeup recently, a bit of rouge at the apples of her cheeks, and Martin had no idea what any of it was, but he's heard Jon muttering unwittingly about it, the Knowledge just spilling out.

"Oh you don't have to say that, Rosie," Martin said, as he did every Monday. He set an insulated cup carefully on her desk, rotating it until the logo faced her. "The new color looks lovely today. Something… orangey?"

"Dusk Meadow," Rosie said, as if that made any sense at all. Martin let out a soft ' _ah_ ' which seemed to satisfy and left her to man the front desk as she always had.

Although it was still early, just barely enough of the sun peeking over the horizon to light the sky up with pink watercolor, the Institute clattered and clicked with the noise of people. Martin waved at Charlotte in her office, where she paced as she spoke, the air around her wriggling with heat lines, the occasional snake of scorch creeping up her door. She smiled when she waved back and he could see the light of flames behind her sunglasses.

He checked in, on Miaka and Ramsey, Delia and Logan, nothing to disturb their work, just an acknowledgment. Even the breakroom had people in it already, Felicia and Andy and Amira huddled together laughing. They sobered up, just a bit, when Martin entered, but he tried to appear as unobtrusive as possible.

Martin went to put the kettle on, but the hob only quietly whooshed with the sound of gas. Charlotte must've grabbed the flint _again_. He ignited the gas with his lighter, set down the kettle to boil. Then, he stood on his tip-toes to pull a tin off the highest shelf where he knew only Jeremiah could reach but rather didn't care for tea and never disturbed it, just like Martin never touched the mint-flavored Tim-Tams.

Warmth settled next to him, the slightest rustle of fabric as arms crossed and a light inhale before speaking. Martin didn't even jump.

"She always wonders why you do that."

"Oh?" Martin said without bothering to look up. The conversation behind him trailed off before resuming, now pointedly louder. It would not do to _blush._

"Rosie. She always wonders why you bring her coffee but nothing for yourself." His voice was directed out as he surveyed the break room. There was nothing interesting there, and he would know everything _anyway_ but Martin didn't comment on it.

"I'm sure you know why," Martin said, piling leaves carefully into the bee-shaped infuser Gareth had given him after an extremely stressful case that assured him of two things: they'd made the perfect choice in Gareth, and Martin would _never_ understand the man's sense of humor.

"Yes. Rosie appreciates the recognition, and - unlike you - she's not a _tea snob._ "

Martin spluttered. "I am not -" he lowered his voice quickly "I am _not_ a tea snob."

When he glanced over, Jon's eyes were alight with mirth, the corner of his mouth pulled up in a grin. It caught the edge of one of his scars, dragging a line from his lip to eye that drew his whole countenance into something more rugged. Martin cleared his throat to hang onto his mock offense.

"Of course. Where, exactly, did you get that tea? Pop off to Waitrose? _Tesco's_ ? _"_

"It was a gift-" Martin tried.

"Yes?"

"-from a very grateful person-"

"Yes-"  
  
"-who just happened to have family in China-"

"Naturally."

"-and thought we might like some as a thank you-"

"Some tea from their thousand-year-old plantation."

"Some tea from… their… thousand-year-old-" Martin held the sugar packet aloft and closed his eyes with a sigh. "I am a tea snob."

Jon laughed, a quick huff of breath, and slid his hand along the counter, strong fingers overlapping where Martin's gripped the edge, gaze still turned out. Martin sacrificed adequate tea preparation to grip Jon's hand, squeezing it so he could relish in the feel of it, the anchor of his presence.

The kettle whistled and Martin pulled it off the hob, searching for the ceramic plate, but it was missing _again_ and usually Preston left them alone if they were plain enough. Jon did not help by pointing at the bubbled surface of formica where a hot kettle'd been set many times before. After a few protesting noises, Martin set down the kettle, sighing as it hissed. He pulled another mug off the shelf and the Darjeeling Jon preferred over the Chinese teas. Unfortunately, Jon did not have a novelty infuser, though Martin had tore apart Amazon looking for something eye-shaped.

"No, nothing for me, thank you."

Martin continued to make tea. "Had some today, did you?"

He knew he hadn't. He'd spoilt Jon, and now nothing else would do, regardless of quality, unless Martin made it. It wasn't the skill he'd _thought_ would help him secure a partner, but it was damned effective. Martin hummed, a bit of a tell, and Jon knew it was a bit of a tell, but Jon knew most things. He _should_ know he'd lost the argument.

"Not exactly, but I'm fine." Despite the protest, Jon skimmed his fingers along Martin's wrist, tracing the thumping line of his pulse.

"Well, it's-" Martin inhaled sharply when Jon's fingernails scratched along the thin skin over the vein. "-it's too late I've already made it."

"So you have. Guess there's no arguing now."

"Nope!" he said, popping the P with some exaggeration to see the eyeroll he knew he'd get. Martin picked up the two mugs and turned around, where Felicia and Andy and Amira stared at him, their gazes darting away in such haste Martin's cheeks burned. Ah.

He may have fled to his office.

"Mister B- Mis- Mister Blackwood?"

Martin certainly did not _jump_ and he didn't _squeal_ ; he instead reacted appropriately and with dignity when something startled him. He smacked Jon's arm when he laughed.

"Ah, erm, yes? Yes, Cassie, what is it?"

Cassandra Clyde had been a recent hire, but Martin barely bothered to interview her. She was a small slip of a thing, with medium brown hair and medium brown skin and small nondescript eyes that always looked down. She'd streaks in her hair now, the gentle curl of gray making it even plainer, unnoticeable. He made it a point to check up on her, visit her office, look out of the peripheral to catch her receding into the darkened corners of rooms. He smiled at her, even though she wouldn't meet his gaze.

"It's, um, it's about the case you gave me? The new one?" She didn't have the file, her fingers twisting around themselves.

"The, erm-" 

"Number 0271208. Husband gone missing, wife swears he didn't just leave her." Jon said quietly from behind him.

"Right. Right! The Sharif case!"

Cassie nodded, her eyes flickering up to Jon before back down at her hands. "I, um, well, I'm not sure - I'm not sure what to do next."

"Alright." Martin waited, but she offered no elaboration. He didn't laugh, though the slight awkwardness tried to tell him it'd be a good idea. "It's - hmm. It's one of ours, yes? One of _yours_?"

"Yes, I can- I can feel that. It's very strong."

"Okay, good - good! So - so what do you think you should do next? What, erm, what information do we need to know?"

She glanced up briefly again. "We try to figure out if it's real."

Martin nodded, and when she still refused to expand on that, he stepped closer. "That's - that's important, yes. But we're doing this to help, right? It's important to see if it's real so we can track it, but it's more important to see what we can do to _help_."

"Oh, o-of course. So I should…"

"Talk to her family, her friends. We can see if they saw something about the relationship she didn't."

Cassie shrugged an assent, then took a step, like she might - _hug him_ \- but her eyes shifted over his shoulder and she retreated. "Thank you, Mr. Blackwood."

"Of course. Good luck." He had to fight for it, but Martin managed to say the end of the sentence without a lilt, so it was a statement and not a question. Cassie faded into a hallway and Martin blew out a heavy breath. He shook his free hand, like he'd been clenching it the whole time.

"You're really good at this."

When Martin turned, Jon had his head tilted, dark brows furrowed in contemplation. He must've managed some sleep the night before, because the permanent smudge of purple under his eyes lessened. His whole demeanor softened, thoughtful, and Martin gave a short laugh.

"At what?"  
  
"Talking with people. You have a way to put them at ease and they speak more openly to you. It's… I _Knew_ it before, but I didn't understand." His pensive face settled into something lighter, and he laid his calloused fingertips to the edge of Martin's jaw.

Martin shivered. "You're good at it too. You just pretend you aren't. The only reason you made me do this part is because you didn't want to do all that paperwork." He touched Jon's hand against his face, their combined warmth a comforting weight against the bone. Even the thoughtfulness faded, until it was only an echoing depth of affection that curved the edges of his mouth into a slight smile.

"It is a _lot_ of paperwork. You have better penmanship."

Martin gasped. "I do _not_! You purposefully write like absolute shit so I don't make you-"

Jon kissed him. He should've felt it coming, the way the hand against his jaw tensed, the step in so their bodies barely brushed, the woody book smell that Jon seemed to emit growing stronger, the other hand pressed into his lower back. Martin did _not_ like that Jon'd figured out he could interrupt a conversation rather handily with a kiss, but then, Jon had learned that Martin didn't forget his train of thought and would pick the argument right back up, however much time had passed. Truthfully, it ensured Martin won every time, even if he lost the argument.

Jon pulled back, just a bit, just enough so their foreheads rested together and every soft susurrus of his breath made Martin tremble with the realness of him. He's here, he's here, he's _here_. Martin pressed forward again, the gentleness of the yield, the way Jon gripped his waistcoat in a way sure to wrinkle and Martin was going to lose those mugs at any second.

"Wesley," Jon murmured.

Martin paused. "No, it's Martin."

"No, I mean - yes, but-"

"Oh, christ, _Wesley._ " Martin jerked away, the tell-tale sound of liquid splashing against the tile a distant thought to his frantic search for - yes. There. Up in the corner, a security camera, red light blinking in the ominous way inanimate objects do when you are angry at them. He rubbed his forehead.

Jon's gaze grew distant. "He's been watching for, hmm, several minutes. Right before you spoke with Cassandra. Right before, well."

" _You_ started that!" Martin said, maneuvering them to avoid the lens of the camera.

"Yes, I did," Jon said with an air of smugness threading through his voice, drawing it darker. 

"Don't sound so pleased with yourself," Martin muttered, even as he slung his arm through Jon's. "And now we have _Wesley_ watching us from his- his- his _tower_."

"That _is_ why we hired him," Jon said, even as he allowed himself to be dragged away.

"There's no cameras in my office." He pointedly did not pay attention to Jon's stifled laughter. "I knew we hired him because he was good at it, but he didn't have to be good at it at _us_."

Jon no longer held back the laugh, and Martin, even as he struggled to maintain a frown, couldn't help but to join.

Although Martin didn't consider himself any sort of savant when it came to technology, he thought he had a bit of a better grasp on it than the average layman, and _certainly_ on Jon, who looked at new technology with a deep distrust and said his phone was perfectly serviceable, eight years down the line.

Frustrated, Martin blew out a sharp breath and conceded. He dialed up Yesenia, whose static vibrated in his ear over the line. She chirped out a positive response.

It took what seemed only moments for Yesenia to arrive, her loud voice greeting Nelson at his desk in an explosion of enthusiasm. Yesenia was one of the few Americans they had on staff, and her relentless bubbly extroversion always seemed to stun the relatively conservative group of nerds and bookworms that made up everyone else. Jon in particular made himself scarce when she came round. But she had a special affinity for technology and one day she'd sat down and told him exactly how true that was. Well, after that, he had to hire her - she still was the only one who could get any of the upgraded lines to work in the Archives or Artefact Storage.

"Howdy, boss!" she said, bounding into the room. While the Institute didn't have a dress code, her ripped colorful jeans and myriad facial piercings did not have any sense of decorum. piercings weren't the pinnacle of decorum. Good. Martin viciously hoped whatever potential existence Jonah Magnus had allowed him to see this brash, obnoxious American mucking up his archives.

"Yesenia, hello. It's the-" He pointed at the screen, where a light chased itself in a circle. "The video conferencing - I can't get it -"

"Ah, right right." Yesenia sat down on his desk and leaned over; Martin held her knee to keep her in place. She frowned. "She says you're putting in the wrong password."

"I _know_ that, Yez. I changed it _three_ times already, and it still won't work."

"Hmm." She leaned over even more, and Martin had to brace her with his forearm as she craned her neck to look at the mess of wires behind the monitor. "She's saying it's a problem between chair and keyboard."

Martin frowned. What did that -? "Can I fix it or -"

Yesenia laughed, but when she pulled back, the video conferencing software sat waiting for input, requiring a display name for the conference set to start in three minutes. She gave a little bow.

"You're very funny. I don't think the _computer_ is having a laugh at me for not figuring this out."

"Of course, boss!" Yesenia saluted as she marched backward out of the room. "She says to stop picking the same password!"

"I haven't -" but she was gone. He stared at the screen. He always picked Jon's birthday, but maybe it was time to…. "I'm not letting a bloody machine tell me what my password can be."

The cursor blinked ominously. He didn't have the same feel for the machines that Yesenia did, but he could sense the disdain pouring off the thing. Martin stuck his tongue out at it.

He signed into the conference, where he'd be talking to _more_ Americans about getting a handle on their - obscenely large - institute analogue. He typed out his display name and -

Huh.

He pecked out "M A R T I N B L A C K W O O D -" but the cursor stopped and he couldn't add anything. He deleted it all and tried again.

M A R T I N B L A C K W O O D -

Huh.

He cleared the space once again. Well, they shouldn't be calling him by his name anyway, right? Even if they all already did so.

B L A C K W O O D -

Martin frowned at the keyboard, then at the screen. Neither seemed swayed by his admonishment. Oh well.

M R B L A C K W O O D

Maybe if Jon hadn't been so insistent on a _hyphen_ this would've worked out better. He inhaled, and the tiny window of his face did the same. He tried on a smile so the face didn't look so sad, and it took too many attempts for something passingly realistic to appear. He shouldn't have signed up for these stupid video conference calls.

Jon waited outside the Institute for him. Martin exited, turned as he waved good-bye to Rosie, and stopped. The late summer sun skimmed the horizon and cast Jon in relief. He could just discern the auburn of Jon's hair that so stubbornly refused to show, the curling hairs in disarray after a whole day of running his hands through it. Martin could make out the beloved profile he'd spot in pure darkness and the slump of his shoulders that no amount of nagging had managed to get rid of. Even though Martin discovered that Jon was - as he suspected - a bit of a clotheshound, he never indulged to get things bespoke, or even tailored. The shoulders on his blazer were too wide, adding to the effect. He idly tapped his foot in a pattern over the cobblestones and Martin realized he was keeping time with whatever he was saying under his breath.

Sometimes, Martin would remember. He would remember what it had felt like, in that desolate place, with the sky an unchanging gray, the horizon hazy and obscure until they got closer. And he remembered Jon, fading into something else. But it always helped to see him like this. Lit by the sun, blazing with something real and hearty and nothing time could touch.

"Jon?"

"Hmm?" Jon opened his eyes, even darker turned away from the sun, but his grin spread the light across his face. 

"You were waiting for me?"

Jon ducked his head, one shoulder coming up to help hide his expression. Warmth suffused Martin's chest and belly in a rush of love he couldn't - wouldn't want to - stifle. Even the grin slackened on his face as he gazed upon a slightly blushing Jon.

"I was - hm." He folded his arms and scanned over the buildings nearby, gaze wandering even down to the Tate, barely visible. "If we, perhaps, if - well -"

Martin took pity. He laid one hand upon Jon's cheek where a whole day of stubble made it rough, a pleasant burr against his palm. When it shut up Jon, he raised his other hand and enfolded his beloved's face. He kissed Jon, aware that Jon kept his eyes open. It was one of the weirder things Jon did, as though he needed to catalogue every minute detail of the kiss. But when Martin pulled away, Jon's eyes were always shut. So. He wouldn't begrudge him a thing.

Even after an afternoon where Martin must've made ten cups of tea - it was a _terrible_ conference - Jon still tasted of his one cup of coffee he conceded to. Martin sighed, their mingled breath warmer than the summer air and a comfort across his skin.

"I waited for you," Jon confessed, his fingers encircling Martin's wrists, thumbs rubbing along the tendon.

"Uh-oh," Martin said, grinning with the joke before he even got a chance to deliver it. "What will people think? You and _the boss_."

Jon huffed a laugh against his mouth even as he rolled his eyes. "We have somewhere else to be."

"Right, right." But Martin lingered, he stole another kiss. And another. And when Jon's hands curved around his back, he surrendered into the embrace.

Eventually, as the sun disappeared and the streetlights stretched into luminance, they managed to separate. Martin gave a little curse as he checked his watch.

"I told Mrs. Hernandez we'd be there at six and it's a quarter till."

Jon went away for a moment, then refocused, the edge of his mouth lifting. "Come on. I know a faster way."

It wasn't quite a run. Martin still hadn't developed a taste for it, as it reminded him too much of prey, a skittering frightened thing desperate to escape. But he kept pace and soon they arrived in that little corner of Lambeth when the sky reached its darkness, a lazy swirl of late clouds spreading wisps of soft gray in a broken reflection of the city lights. Although they were still close to most of the big tourist centers, this street generally stayed local, with the detached Londoner attitude not quite as strong amongst their own kind. The owner of a novelty shop - one filled with weird, slightly suspicious (Martin checked it out many times and nothing ever really set off alarms but he worked with Jon to keep an Eye on it just the same) items - waved at them in recognition.

Martin leaned over. "Mr. Kinney still thinks we're just very friendly flatmates?"

Jon's fingers flexed where they were twisted in Martin's grasp. He shifted so he walked backward, keeping both the small novelty shop and Martin in view. "No… he thinks… (his voice slips into something _deeply_ Scouser) you're a right catch for his son down in Brighton."

The laugh exploded out of him before he could choke it down. Jon grinned, something he rarely ever saw, the crooked set of the bottom from a missing molar something he's aware of from touch but not sight. Martin pulled him close and leaned down to his ear.

"He does _not_ think that," he said, even as his voice broke to pieces with giggles.

"Of course he does." This time, the accent sounded more like someone doing a bad Lennon impression without the Knowing to help. "Thinks you're handsome and kind, too much for that scrawny little bloke."

"What a prat! That's absolutely untrue." Martin threw a scowl over his shoulder as he continued to drag Jon along. "Next time, we'll have to just - make out _wildly_ on the shopfront glass."

"I'm sure he'll be very contrite after that." Jon's serious tone sent him into another fit of giggles. But he made sure to grip Jon's hand very tightly so that he knew Martin would do it, would snog him against that man's shop until Mr. Kinney _knew_ no one else would be acceptable.

La Cocina, while perhaps not the most innovatively named place, served as Martin's go-to place for Mexican food, literally the only place in London he'd found someone making it that came from Mexico and not by way of Gibraltar. He'd lived off it for so long, Mrs. Hernandez stopped holding back on advice. She'd admonished him for _years_ about not confronting Jon. She'd been so smug when he told her.

The gingham curtains sat below "¡Bienvenidos a La Cocina!" in faded green cursive. Martin rather thought it gave the whole place a more Italian feel, but inside that upbeat Mexican music played loud enough to disabuse the notion. The inside - like most restaurants in this type of neighborhood find - was narrow and long, with a few patrons conversing quietly at tables pushed against walls. Martin beelined to the counter at the back end, where a display of chilled desserts sat below a yellow fluorescent light in an old case that whirred. Martin knew better than to lean his forearms against the counter, having wiped it down with a provided cloth several times until he learned.

Miguelina, a round-faced teen who'd only recently cut her hair very short and still touched it every so often with anxiety, came out of the back doors to greet him. She stopped, rolled her eyes, and went back in. Sure enough, Mrs. Hernandez emerged quickly thereafter. She was a short woman, stout with the kind of solidness that seemed immoveable. Her dark eyes scanned him up and down and Martin straightened, hands straying to his waistcoat that never sat right.

"Hola Martin," she said, rolling the r with an emphasis Martin didn't think it deserved. "¿Dónde está tu esposo?"

Martin breathed out a laugh. His connection with the Eye was tenuous at best, but prolonged exposure at the Institute made it so he could just _quite_ pick up different languages. He couldn't speak them, and nothing so far off from English like Mandarin or Russian, but Spanish he could manage. He glanced behind him and, sure enough, Jon wasn't there anymore.

"You know, where he always is."

Mrs. Hernandez patted him on the shoulder. Then, she slipped her hand down to grab at his bicep and his arm. He jerked away, but she pinched at his waist regardless. Martin yelped.

"Hey!"

" _I don't like seeing you like this. Why doesn't your husband make sure you eat more? You looked better soft._ " She snapped at Miguelina, who had approached with a tied up bag. The girl rolled her eyes and went to the back.

"It's fine, Mrs. Hernandez. It's the stress, but I will eat all of - okay, I can't eat all of _that_ ," he said, as Miguelina returned with two more bags. Mrs. Hernandez handed them off before he could protest. She reached up and patted his face with enough force that someone might call it a slap.

" _Come by every day and I will give you some beans and rice until you get healthy again, son."_

Martin nodded, overladen with bags, and scooted out of there before she could bestow him with anything else, god forbid some flan which he couldn't resist. He skirted along the tables, muttering apologies to everyone he sorta accidentally hit with one of the bags. The restaurant was small enough that it was obvious Jon hadn't found a place to sit, but he knew where Jon would be.

He set the bags down on the floor, just outside the doorway to the darkened alcove. Inside, the windows and walls had been covered with dark cloth, and a small wooden bench, covered in the scars of years of use, sat before a wrought-iron rack. It stood waist-height, with three stair-stepping rows of candleholders, each containing a red glass cylinder with a votive candle. Some were lit, but the majority were not, and their flickering flame provided the only light besides the faint glow of the restaurant. Jon stood in front of the rack, arms ending in clenched fists at his sides.

Religion had never been a topic they discussed with any regularity. For Martin, it'd been some vaguely Protestant thing, surfacing only at holidays and funerals. He'd suspected it had been something more significant for Jon, with the way Jon lingered in front of the big cathedrals, or his hands would sometimes twitch as if he would cross himself. But his parents had died when he was so young, and Martin had railed long enough against the childhood under his grandmother that it didn't seem something good to bring up.

Here, though, in this small space where Martin saw a colorful portrait of, he presumed, the Virgin Mary, the air grew with a sort of sacred that Martin rarely felt. He wasn't religious, but he could see the appeal of sacrament, when he saw Jon laugh so hard he would snort, or the way doing the washing up would make his hair frizz in a glowing halo around his crown, or how a certain shaft of sunlight in their bedroom would - at just past six - catch Jon across the cheekbone, throwing a worm scar in stark shadow, the sooty edge of his eyelashes a fan against his skin, and most of the wrinkles smoothed out except for that one he knew was there because he'd watched it emerge, every time he made Jon laugh.

Yes. He could understand the urge to worship.

Martin stood beside Jon, silent. After a few moments, Jon took a deep breath, as if he hadn't done so for a long while.

"Did you, erm -" Jon cleared away the roughness of his throat. "Did you get the…"

"Yes." Neither moved. Martin pressed just the slightest bit closer, feeling the length of Jon, almost cold here, against him. "I don't… what do they mean? The candles?"

"Hmm. They're used for many things, prayer mostly, but I believe, in general, personal setups like these are for honoring the dead."

They watched the flames shift and flicker in the darkness, even without the presence of much wind. Martin touched his fingertips to the back of Jon's hand.

"Would you like to light one?"

"Mmh," Jon said, noncommittal. But he didn't stop Martin from pulling out his lighter and touching the flame to a white wick, holding until the fire caught in a small flare of light. "Another one, please."

Martin did so, and another, once that was lit. He hadn't meant to, but the three candles were on different levels, away from each other. They watched them burn, dancing to an unfelt breeze. Jon took a shaky breath and gripped Martin's hand tight, and it was as if all the color flooded back into the room.

"Come on," Jon said, and picked up one of the bags as they made their way out of the restaurant.

That night, after Martin put everything away and Jon did the washing up like usual, he didn't retreat into a book - as he was wont to do and there were _so many_ books half-abandoned around the flat - but rather snatched away Martin's phone (where he definitely wasn't checking emails) and set it inside one of their few metal bowls, so the music echoed with a tinny but haunting sound.

Jon extended a hand. Martin blushed, and stammered, but he relented, even lit up the two candles they'd found in the cupboard when they'd moved in. For just a moment more, he hesitated, trying to move away but his feet wouldn't retreat and he found himself taking Jon's hand.

He recognized the music. Billie Holiday. Jon tended to like jazz, especially the live albums; the genre invited so much improvisation and personalization that it was difficult to predict, certain patterns that good artists shook up. It broke apart all the little boxes music made in his head, Jon explained, where trite pop songs sounded like droning.

Martin had only danced a few times, mostly at obliged weddings and one Christmas where Tim'd got them drunk enough to begin giving lessons and turned out Sasha had studied dance quite seriously and enjoyed the way Tim and Martin matched up in their movements. But Jon didn't have training, didn't require any of that. He unbuttoned the damn waistcoat and threw over a kitchen chair, and set to enfold Martin in his arms.

Jon held his head in one hand and the other against the small of his back. Martin leaned to press his cheek against Jon's shoulder and sighed. They swayed, the best kind of dancing with no one to tell him how to move his feet in a joking slurred manner, or no one to step on his toes, though they were both in socks and he could feel Jon's body heat regardless. They just swayed, the music an ethereal veil laid over them.

Martin closed his eyes. "I love you," he sighed into Jon's neck.

Jon's hands tightened on him, to the point of strength, just off from bruising. "Yes. Yes, I know."

"I wouldn't ever - I wouldn't ever leave you." He breathed in deeply the scent, darker and stronger here, just the slightest hint of their laundry soap that he couldn't detect because it was _theirs_ and everything smelled of _them_.

"I know," Jon whispered. He gripped harder and it did bruise, Martin could almost feel the blood vessels bursting beneath his skin and sometimes he wished he could carry the imprint of Jon on him forever.

Jon wrenched himself out of their embrace, hooking his fingers behind Martin's ears to catch him, stare into his eyes with a fierce determination. "I love you. I love _you_. And I would never-"

"I know-"

"I would _never-_ "

"I know-"

Jon shook him, just a bit, just enough to rattle the platitudes from his throat. His eyebrows furrowed and his jaw twitched as he set it firm. "I will never leave you. I love you."

Martin laughed and touched his forehead to Jon's. "Hey, I know. I know. You couldn't leave if you tried."

"I wouldn't."

Martin touched the determined line of his mouth, then leaned forward to kiss it. "I know, love. I know."

He was losing the file, though he probably shouldn't have put it in his mouth to begin with, and Martin clenched his teeth to try to save it.

"Mr. Blackwood?"

He jerked in surprise and the file spilled out across the floor. Martin sighed. Cassie stood off to the side with her arms wound tightly around her and her eyes wide in some sort of quiet anxious mood. He set down his cup on the floor and the briefcase (how had he become someone who carried around a briefcase, good lord) beside it as he started to gather the contents. Cassie did not help.

"Yes, Cassie, what is it?" Martin used his wrist to brush his hair out of his face as he knelt, wondering why Amira gave him a file with so many papers and not a single staple like maybe they were running out of staples in the whole world and she couldn't contribute to the shortage.

"Its… well it's about the. The case."

He snagged the last piece, a photograph of a yawning hole under a lake that looked just dreadful. Martin tried to bring his mind back to Cassie. "Ah, yes? Erm. The. The, ah, Sharif case?"

"Yes."

He stood up and brushed off his clothes, pulling on his waistcoat and checking for wrinkles: none yet. It'd take time to sort the file again, but he scanned about and there weren't any lost contents. He glanced back up at Cassie, who looked soft at the edges, as if she were moments away from fading. "Cassie, please, just tell me what's happening."

"She didn't have much friends, family all gone or too distant to care. But there was, um, Abel Janovich? And he said - he said he thought their marriage was doing very well. He hadn't seen Mr. Sharif in ages, though. And when I asked him how long, he couldn't remember. Said it might have been years." She stopped just as abruptly as she'd started.

"Right. So… that's strange. Were there any police reports or social media about this?" He took a sip of his tea and it was losing the battle to thermodynamics in a pitiful and inevitable way. Cassie resisted most of his attempts to, well, _mentor_ her, if he even wanted to call it that. But something about her reminded him of - him. And so he couldn't stop.

"Nothing. Mrs. Sharif says he just disappeared this past fortnight. I… erm. I don't know what to do."

Everything about it sounded wrong, but the digital statement wouldn't go through, and Martin knew what it meant. Normally, he'd let it go, let the researcher off for lack of information, but Cassie came to him and she seemed so distraught.

"Maybe you can go speak with her again, and Jon can go with-"

"No!" She startled Martin. He'd never heard her speak so strongly. "No, um, please. Please."

Martin slowly nodded. "Right. Right, of course. I could come with you, or Bryce. Might make it a bit easier."

She gave a full body shake, maybe in acquiescence, and more or less ran away from him. Martin sighed, then let out a brief chuckle. Christ, the reputation Jon had with the new ones.

"-like she'd been shot!" Martin said, gesturing with the latter half of an eggroll. He swept the fallen piece of carrot onto a napkin. Jon, papers spread before him and two more in his hands, looked up at that, glasses perched at the end of his nose.

"She's afraid of _me_?" he said, as if Jonathan Sims had only ever been the model of kindness and civility.

"I know, what a surprise, you're usually very warm regarding new employees who may be slightly bad at their jobs."

Jon smirked, but only for a moment, until realization dawned across his face and Martin had to look back at the remnants of his takeaway. "You think she - right. Well. I shall endeavor to be more civil to her if we speak again."

Martin rolled his eyes at the formal language, which meant both that Jon was taking it seriously and that he thought it was a bit ridiculous. He reached out and snatched one of the statements Jon was reading, sparking just a mild protest. "What are these anyway? I don't think I've seen them before."

"Ah. Well. They are. Erm. Statements about… what people remember. From."

"Oh, right. Yes. Right, of course." Martin dropped the statement, trying for casual but definitely achieving 'it may have just been set on fire'. That didn't seem to bother Jon, who carefully collected it back with the rest of them.

"There should be a record," Jon said quietly, shuffling the papers so their edges all lined up, correcting the tiniest mistake, the smallest adjustment, even when they seemed perfect.

Instead of a response, Martin stood and stretched across the table to grab Jon's hands in his, the calloused edges from writing, the rough scar where Jude Perry burned him, the soft hairs on the back that he could feel sliding along the grooves of his fingerprints. He squeezed, and Jon looked up, dark eyes so wide, mouth trembling in a frown.

The door opened; Martin leapt off his desk and almost fell, catching himself at the last moment.

"Um, Mr. Blackwood?"

"Jesus! Cassie!" Martin clutched the edge of his desk and tried to stop his heart from beating out of his chest. She stood in the doorway frozen. "What did- what did you _need_ , Cassie?"

She took a step forward, arms still wrapped around her as if it were the only thing keeping her together. Jon stepped up next to Martin, a hand soothingly rubbing up and down his back.

"I. Erm. That is. I thought I'd go speak to Mrs. Sharif again this afternoon. If - if that's alright?"

"Yes." Martin swallowed a few times, finally feeling his pulse slow and his breathing return to normal. Nelson was out there to _prevent_ things like this! "You'd - you'd like someone to go with you?"

"Erm. Please."

Martin stole a glance at Jon, who shrugged. Martin gestured. "Well, Jon is free, if you'd like him to -"

"No!" Her eyes darted between them before she tucked away her gaze entirely. "No, it's not - I don't mean to be rude - sorry. I'd feel more comfortable with - well. With - not - Mr. Blackwood."

He sighed, gave her a nod, and she took leave to scurry out of the room immediately. Martin gathered up his things, making a note to just toss the takeaway when he got back, because if he left it, Jon _might_ just eat a bite. He gave Jon a kiss before he left, something he meant to be quick, but Jon grabbed his arm and pulled him close and - well. He may have got a bit distracted.

He pushed away, finally, hot under his collar and fiddling with his waistcoat that Jon had rucked up his ribs. He gave a grin and tried to leave again. Jon's hand clamped around his wrist.

"Jon?" Martin asked, searching Jon's face. His expression was closed, eyes shuttered, mouth swollen from kissing but still pursed in dissonant dismay. Martin knew this expression, and he did not like it, but if he let Jon shut down a moment, he could always expect him to open back up. Always.

"It's the end of the month, Martin. Time for evaluations."

Martin slowly nodded, trying to read all the things he wasn't saying. "I won't be late."

Jon kissed him again, eyes staying closed as he pulled away. He released Martin's arm. "I know. I know."

Cassie paced in front of the Institute. Martin took a deep breath and went to meet her. She looked even smaller outside in the gray light, hunched shoulders, with straight hair a curtain in front of her face. In her steel blue jacket, she nearly faded away.

"Come on then. She's not far, I believe?" he said, starting to walk north away from the Institute.

"In Belgravia," Cassie said softly.

"In Bel- in _Belgravia_? Well, alright." He kept up a brisk pace, hoping it too quick for Cassie to try asking him questions. He liked her just fine, and always told himself he could lead her in a better way than those who'd obviously failed her. But her shyness and reticence felt too familiar at times, and he'd dealt with that part of himself - it wouldn't do to go through all of it again. Maybe if she reached out, but only ever seemed to be collapsing in like an old star.

"I'm not afraid of Jon," Cassie said to the cobblestones as their feet clacked along them.

"Good! That's. Good. He's -" Martin tried on 'not scary' or 'harmless' or 'nice' or 'the most selfless person you could ever meet' and didn't think any of them fit for Cassie to know. "He likes helping people."

"I know," she said, fidgeting. "But you get the balance between… and. I feel like I can't talk to him."

Martin winced. "That's not - well it's not entirely unfair. And he's better once you get to know him. It just takes some getting used to."

Cassie hummed an agreement, but didn't speak anymore. Part of him wanted to take the chance to defend Jon more, but honestly, Jon could give a very bad impression from the onset, and if Cassie needed to learn how to deal with him, then it could happen in time. Instead, Martin watched the homes grow increasingly posh, and dread began to wash over him. He pulled at his waistcoat.

When they got closer, he started walking up to the plaques with addresses, checking against the papers Cassie'd brought.

"There," she said.

He looked up. "Oh, no."

They found these, sometimes. It tended not to happen often, and usually in places much more remote, not the smack middle of a rich neighborhood, but somewhere with woods and creaking sheds. Still. They found them. A bubble of concentrated essence, like pushing all the fears out of the world, even for the spare moment they did, had let some slip loose, fingers trying to hold sand and grains spilling despite best efforts. Sometimes they appeared again, small, dense, a pocket where one of these things coalesced in its whole terrible self.

Over the Sharif house, a fog had settled. Hardly noticeable against the overcast sky, it nonetheless rippled with energy, shifting so only glimpses could be caught, like a breath in the cold. The fog didn't overreach, didn't touch any of the other buildings, roiling against the edges as though a glass wall encased it.

Martin inhaled sharply. "Was this here the last time?"

"Not as strongly. I could barely see it before. But. This is."

He pushed open the gate, surprised it wasn't locked even as he did so, and hurried through the small well-kept garden to the door. She'd favored violet blossoms, the rows of orchids and dahlias and foxglove bobbing prettily in their orderly lines, unfazed by the cloud around them.

When he approached the steps, he felt the first resistance. Martin took a steadying breath, then placed his hands upon the air and pushed. He'd always meant to let this go, to finally divest himself of the feeling, to realize that he wouldn't be alone again if he didn't want. But it defined him, in ways, and even if he could remove it, he'd lose something, a piece of who he was, a flaw, perhaps, but still crucial to his form. Martin let the fog roll into him rather than against, felt it curl inside his chest with a shard of ice that shivered through his lungs.

He moved slowly, the fog accommodating him but almost cognizant of his mission, his desire to strip it of its prize. For now, though, for now, it remembered how he tasted and had always been fond of the flavor.

Martin knocked on the door, as hard as he could, though the fog absorbed most of the sound and made it so still, so quiet. He pounded at it again.

The door opened. Mrs. Sharif stood on the other side, dressed in something beautifully bespoke, a sharp cut suit in emerald that made her dark skin gleam. The fog intensified around her, snaking along her arms and throat and hair like a lover would, curling and unfurling like a measured breath, like a heartbeat.

"Hello?" she said, her voice catching in the thickening fog so he could barely hear it.

"Mrs. Sharif, my name is Martin Blackwood. I'm from the-"

"Hello?" she said again, her glassy eyes passing directly over Martin. Her brow tightened.

"Mrs. Sharif-"

She started to close the door; he slammed out a hand to block it, but the fog had solidified. He felt it then, the way it started to intensify, pull at him, a nest rejecting an intruder and Martin stumbled backward until he fell out of the gate, nearly crashing into Cassie, who held his arm while he steadied.

Martin looked up at the house. Nothing - no discerning features, only an endless blue fog.

"Fuck!" He stormed away, not willing to stand on the street in Belgravia to curse, or to hurl anything at Cassie, who jogged to keep up with him. As he got further away, his pace slowed, and he rubbed at his eyes.

"She- I thought it was her husband last time. Lingering. I thought it would go away."

"Well, it didn't!" he snapped. He stopped. He couldn't - he _couldn't_ take it out on her. Martin swallowed a few times to regain his composure. "There was nothing you could do, Cassie. Though it prefers single victims, it's not impossible for the Lonely to take multiple. It might even enjoy it more. She must've - she must've loved him an awful lot."

"Yes, I think so."

They continued their walk back in silence, Martin trying to stow away his misplaced anger. It was inevitable. The world they chose, the things they had to do to even get _this_ level of normalcy - sometimes stuff like this couldn't be prevented. At the entrance to the Institute, Martin looked at the tall brick building, then at Cassie, shivering and cowering at his side.

"Take the rest of the day, Cassie." She sniffled and nodded, eyes down. "It wasn't your fault."

"I know," she said in a way that meant she didn't believe it. She fumbled with her bag, and thrust a folder at him. "It's the- it's the Sharif case. I - I got a statement. Before."

Martin took the folder and pressed it against his chest. "Oh. Well. That's good then. Did you read it?"

She shook her head. "Not yet. Could you…?"

"Yeah, sure. Yeah, I'll. Don't worry about it."

Again, Cassie nodded and headed south, the contrast between her jacket and the sky lessening until she faded into it, away.

Martin took the cufflinks out of his sleeves and set them on his desk. He didn't own many, all of them a gift. These were swirls of purple and green, a joke, perhaps, from Preston. He took his keys and wallet from his pocket and set them on his desk. He took out the lighter, finger rubbing across the engraved lines, and laid it in his top drawer. He logged off the computer and shut it down. He scrolled through the numbers on the combination lock to his safe, the clicks loud in the silence. He took out the single key inside, the paper, and the tape recorder, and put them into separate pockets on his waistcoat. He shuffled all the papers from on top to inside his desk, pausing over the Sharif file. He pulled out the statement and laid it flat before tucking the rest of it away.

He'd told Nelson to go home an hour ago, and so the desk outside his office was unmanned. He ran his fingers along the glossy top, cold in the stillness. He headed down the stairs, this flight mostly unused, as people generally only came up them to see him. He ran his fingers along the wallpaper, the slightest texture of small bumps that he could barely distinguish from the rest.

He walked through the hallway, and no one noticed him. His brush that afternoon still coiled inside him, and he could access it easier, the same sensation he'd used before, aversion, just a gaze sliding over him as he walked. Even with all the upgrades they'd made to the systems, they still couldn't quite catch him. He stopped outside a certain door and stared up into the camera, letting go of the cloak and slipping into the mind, into the watcher, and he averted Wesley away until he went inside, shutting the door behind him.

The trap door wouldn't be discoverable by anyone who didn't know where it was. Part of his gaze, how it interacted with his other abilities, let him hide things, tuck them down in a way that it would never be found again. He twisted the handle and popped it open.

Inside the tunnels, he unfolded the map. He knew the path now, memorized all the twists and turns, even when new twists and turns were added. Without the map, however, it didn't work. He could follow the same route, but without that simple piece of paper, he'd become lost. So he held it, used it, almost a talisman against the encroaching madness.

He dreaded the day the entities regained enough power to manifest avatars. So far, everything remained just distant enough, even with the mishaps, it was all contained and easy to cover up, brush off, turn into something manageable.

And even as he wished it, he wasn't sure if he never wanted that day to come. At least, despite their fervor and their crazed passion and their insanity, the other avatars knew. They knew what it was like to feel the power coursing through you, out of you. He never wanted anyone to suffer, as they all had, but if it were inevitable then. Well.

He found the door. He folded up the map and tucked it away. He pulled out the key, only half the size of his palm, a dull brass with one end twisted into the crude shape of a circle with two extended curved points at the end. It'd seemed tempting fate to design it with an eye, and - frankly - Martin was tired of the motif.

He put the key inside the lock and laid his hand against the cold stone, pushing the two sides of him through, the need to go away, to be diminished, to vanish, and the need to know, to find, to seek, to obtain all knowledge without ever touching the reality of something. The key was mostly for show, of course. But he felt it click anyway, and he slid into the room.

The original room, the place designed by Smirke and hollowed out for the Millbank prison, had collapsed under their previous doings. But the structure still remained, a buffer in reality that existed indefinitely, even when the world had seemed to end, it endured, a lightless orb of nothing waiting to be filled.

And so they filled it.

Not with benches or tables or walls, but with energy. It all twisted here, malicious and subdued, a riotous mix of volatility that changed the more you looked upon it. Sometimes it rushed over you in a flare of heat or a punishing wave of cold, sometimes it overpowered with the stretch of rot or the clicking of thousands of pincers, sometimes it was a voice calling your name that didn't sound right, or the sense of pressure so strong it bore you down, or the absence, as if you'd lift away without a tether, or the heavy breath of something behind you or the spatter of blood across the floor or feathery sensation of silk sticking to your skin or a creaking door that opens from everywhere or even the oppressive silence where nothing could ever exist again and yet it was always the _watching_ that you could feel. The prickling feeling along your neck that made the hairs on your arms raise up, it made you want to spin around until you found them, whomever caught you, whomever _saw_ you.

Martin let himself drift in the sensation for a moment. Even the disparate feelings buoyed him distantly, close but never touching, a possessiveness keeping their seeking vines at bay. The power here didn't - couldn't - compare to what it had been before, but their essence remained, the last desperate dregs of their abilities tossed in a bell jar, pressurized by the ever seeing eye.

He returned to himself, and Martin sighed, looking up. "Hello, my love."

The Eye had once been a man. It still flirted with the shape of one, four limbs, a torso, a place where a head should be. But the limbs were elongated, undulating, and when the head moved as if it had heard the sound of his voice, the eyes lit up across the spread of tendrils into a myriad of eyes, blinking and glowing, flowing along the flesh in a dizzying makeup of something that can See everything, always.

He didn't misspeak. Martin loved him, utterly.

The Eye spoke, a hundred inflections, a thousand utterances, echoing into each other as it made up some semblance of a voice it knew, had heard, in all its iterations. "Evaluations."

Martin laid the tape recorder on the ground, pressing play so a staticy voice began to recite statements. It would be on his desk in the morning. "You have them. The Lonely made a space, but it's self-contained. Nothing to worry about. And you are…?"

"Optimal," it said in those overlapping tones, impossible to pinpoint.

"Right. Good." He breathed in, the heaviness against his chest real or imagined, but hard to tell when the mind could make anything real if you could imagine. Martin gazed at the image, suspended in the darkness, the only light catching in the glimmer of a sclera, a central eye in the center pulsating with a thick greenish glow that seemed to roll off it if one stared long enough. He did - stare long enough.

"Right," he said again, turning to leave.

Something crept around his wrist, warm with blood and soft as skin. The scratch of eyelashes mimicked hair so closely he could imagine it, his own eyes closed. It rubbed along his wrist, the vulnerable underside, pale and thin.

"Martin…" the voice said, a single note stronger than the rest.

"Yes," he whispered, eyes squeezed tighter.

"Martin Blackwood…"

"Yes."

"Sims."

" _Yes._ "

"Martin Blackwood-Sims." A surge of recognition, a strained and sure voice, something he'd heard a thousand times huddled under a blanket, clinging in a nightmare that somehow didn't affect them as it should, the despair unable to pierce their entwined arms. "Martin, I lo..."

"I know."

"I love…"

"Jon, please. I know. _I know,_ " he said, the thickness of moisture in his words, even as he felt the grip around his wrist lessen.

The air hummed with a pregnant pause, none of the entities forward with their usual eagerness to be recognized, to be felt.

"Evaluations in one month."

"That's right," Martin said, hand out in the darkness until he willed the door to him, the stone cold and reassuring. "Good-bye, my love."

When he returned to his office, Martin retrieved his things. He put the key and the map back in the safe, sure that the recorder would be there should he check in the morning. He opened the drawer to look at the lighter, the scratched surface, the distinct lines of the web mostly worn off from too much idle rubbing. He didn't touch it. He closed the drawer.

Martin picked up the statement and paused as he took in the first line. Then, he sat, and began to read.

> Statement of… the Archivist, regarding the end of the Before.
> 
> Statement begins. 
> 
> Ever since I was young, I always believed my life was destined to be short. My parents died before I was six. I thought, maybe, that it had been connected to all this, that I'd somehow been chosen from the very beginning to head down this path. It wasn't true, of course. My father had an aneurysm and fell down some stairs. A few years later, my mother died when they tried to repair a small hole in her aorta. Their deaths were tragic, but mundane; losers of the genetic lottery. That will be it, I'd thought. My heart or my brain - one of them would betray me. I had to do something, and I decided to guard my heart - surely I was smart enough, clever enough, that doing so and leaving my brain to fend itself would be best. As you know Martin, I have always been an arrogant and foolish man. 
> 
> _-every time I close my eyes. When I blinked, you understand, I felt it, just behind me, breath against my neck, and it said my name. It said my_ name _. Audra said she'd watch me sleep, and I haven't slept in - I haven't slept in so long. Even when I blink, I can hear it. I-_
> 
> Was it arrogance to think we could fix the destruction I had caused without steep compensation, without penance, without that pound of flesh and liter of blood, and our so jealously guarded selves? Yes, yes, obviously. I'd always been arrogant to hide some soft part of myself that once exposed proves too tempting a target for the things we faced.
> 
> _-it's roiling inside me. The tiny squirming bits thriving on the succulence of my flesh, the stringy sinewy slivers of meat that cover my pale bones, the soft globules of yellow fat that they chew and chew and chew until I can hear the gnashing of their teeth pressed against my skin from the inside. They are searching for a way out but I will not let them leave me, we belong together now, and I cannot be alone again-_
> 
> When we realized what was needed, what would be necessary to do in order to save what was left, I accepted it. You didn't, of course. You fought and fought and part of me hated that you wouldn't just let me go.
> 
> What I didn't understand, you see, is that it wasn't hate fueling that panicked urgent feeling - it was fear. _Fear_ . We'd spent so long traveling that wasteland, and the things out there, the embodiments of fear meant to incite terror in people, were afraid of _me_ . I'd thought I'd conquered it; how could I fear, if I _was_ fear. Yes, _I know_.
> 
> _-the last one left. It was my mum first, though I didn't realize because she'd been gone on holiday for a bit. But when she came back, it weren't her. And then it weren't my da. And my sisters - I knew their faces, I_ know _their faces, but it weren't them anymore. Something replaced them and I heard'em laughing, and they stood outside me door to whisper I were next. No one believes me and I don't know how long I can hold on to my own self-_
> 
> But I was afraid. You would risk everything to save me, and I couldn't let you. How could I let you beat yourself against the implacable face of fear, turned ever toward us? You helped me realize my worth, but it would never be enough to lose the whole world, not when we had a chance. So. I convinced you, and you let yourself be convinced only because you trusted me. We saved what we could of the world, and what we could of each other.
> 
> I don't think I make it, Martin, but it has been enough. You must know. Being with you, what we have endured - it has meaning, it has worth, and it has been enough.

The statement slipped from Martin's shaking fingers, but he caught it. He spread it out on his desk, tracing the edges, the horrible handwriting he could instantly read.

"Time… time to go home, then?" Jon said, eyes clearing up as the words left his mouth.

Martin smiled, closing his fingers in a fist around the lighter. "Yes, please. Let's go home."

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS:
> 
> \- major character death  
> \- delusions  
> \- isolation


End file.
